Route 66

I walked down from the cut where I'd parked the car,
Past the gleaming new university building.
A girl (18? 19?) walked in front of me with her friend.
She wore a man's patterned tweed jacket
It looked new.
It had brown corduroy patches on the elbows.
They also looked new.

I'm standing on the shore of my island.
The sea slowly circles round,
Different currents moving at different speeds.
Inconsequential memories bob along on the surface.
This memory has passed many times,
Sometimes years apart:
Route 66 in fuzzy black and white.
George Maharis enters a clothes shop.
He looks at the jackets; he feels the cloth.
The tall, lean, desert-dry proprietor asks him:
"See something you like?"
"You got any jackets with those leather patches on the elbows?"
The proprietor replies, slightly scandalised:
"Mister, these are brand new."
George is disappointed.
The image fades.
The memory disappears round the headland.

I never remember the times my heart stopped,
Or the times I was angry and brave,
Or the times I cringed in fear.
Or the times the women I loved smiled at me,
But in a year or two George Maharis,
In fuzzy black and white,
Will float past and be disappointed again.